A Malefaction of Fire
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: "Somewhere along the darkened road, he collapses- burned and bloodied. Between ragged breaths, he sobs. His heart swelling with agony and rage, he lifts his head and curses into the night, swearing vengeance." Duncan is called away from Highever, leaving the Couslands to face Howe's betrayal unaided, and a very different story begins as the Teryn's youngest escapes into the night.
1. Chapter 1

The Frozen Pint was a dreary, collapsing tavern erected on the Fereldan side of Gherlen's Pass a few months after the rebellion began and Orlesian troops began to flow through the area. Though there were no more passing soldiers thirsty for ale, most of its patrons were still travelers heading to or coming from Orlais, eager to escape the icy blasts that buffeted the rocky peaks and played with the building's loose boards. However, a haven from the driving winds or not, few remained by choice for more than a day or two. Every inch of the establishment was perpetually wet with snow melt and those inside were sporadically treated with gusts of bone-chilling air when the cold found a gap in the planks.

Accordingly, there was a collective shudder throughout the tavern as the door swung open to allow the elements in, prompting the travelers gathered inside to huddle deeper within their cloaks and edge closer to the hearth. A lone, young-looking man closed the door behind him as he entered and he paused to pull down his hood and survey the room.

He found a few suspicious stares from the other patrons but after a brief moment made for the bar, the slight rustle of armor coming from beneath his cloak as he walked. Using one gauntleted hand to scrub the frost from the patch of facial hair beneath his lip, he glanced to the bartender and mimed for a drink.

The portly man on the opposite side of the counter wiped his hands on his apron and disappeared in another direction, leaving Alistair alone with another patron who sat half-slumped over the bar.

The other man hadn't reacted to his presence in the slightest, even as the warden stood behind him at a distance he knew must be uncomfortably close. Alistair frowned—he hoped the man wasn't an inebriate, that would complicate things considerably. The stranger in question had ragged, dark-brown hair and wore a cloak that almost fell to the floor, though the former templar estimated him to stand a bit shorter than himself.

While Alistair mulled over his course of action, the man brought a tankard of ale to his lips and drained the pewter mug. Setting down the empty beverage, he gave a grunt.

"Are you just going to stand there, then?"

Alistair blinked. "You- uh, you know who I am?"

"No," the man stated without turning. "But you're looking for me, so that narrows it down."

The templar straightened and cleared his throat. "I am Alistair of the Grey Wardens. You met my commander several months ago."

He gave an affirmative nod. "Duncan."

A small smile creased the young warden's face. "You remember him, then?"

"I remember that he drank like a fish and that he didn't seem overly concerned about taking advantage of my father's hospitality."

"He's dead."

"A shame."

Alistair frowned deeply, but realized he couldn't tell if the man was being snide or sincere. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I…_Ferelden_ needs your help."

"No."

The templar sighed. The Fereldan warden could count on one hand the people who had been cooperative with his efforts to save them all from the Blight, and he supposed it wouldn't make sense for that to change now. "I _could_ just conscript you, you know." He threatened irritably.

The seated man glanced over his shoulder, flashing a wolfish grin and piercing blue eyes. He gave Alistair a half-hearted shrug. "You could try."

The man shook his head slightly and turned to inspect his empty mug, apparently growing bored of the conversation. "Besides, isn't there a whole order of you people? You don't need someone like me."

There was a pause as the warden seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. "You're right," Alistair conceded. "I _don't_ need someone like you. I need someone with integrity, and courage, and _skill_." The warden leaned in alongside the man conspiratorially, searching the stranger's visage for some semblance of cognition. "I need someone like the Clyde Cousland that Duncan saw so much promise in."

The scion of the Couslands met the templar's eye suddenly, his stoic expression blemished with the lines that pain and exhaustion had drawn upon his face. "I am not that man," he spoke slowly, "and it would serve you well to forget me."

Alistair withdrew, the moment of fleeting hope replaced with apparent disappointment and frustration. He hadn't followed the man's trail across half of Ferelden on a whim—he'd been the youngest competitor to ever win the King's Tournament, and Duncan had done everything short of strong-arming the teyrn to make the boy a Grey Warden. The templar gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. "So this is how you're going to restore your family's honor, then? Drinking yourself into a stupor in some frozen backwater?"

"To the void with their honor," Clyde interjected, "My family's dead."

The warden furrowed his brow. "What of your brother Fergus?"

The seated Cousland gave a dismissive shake of the head. "He's either dead or he's allowed himself to be cowed by the men who murdered our parents in cold blood. The forces of Highever share his fate." He turned on his stool to give Alistair a grim smile. "It pleases me to believe the former is the case.

"I believe, however, that the Maker has a plan in mind for everyone in this wretched little hole we call Thedas. I simply hope the one he has for me ends with my hands wrapped around Howe's throat."

"And that's going to restore the Couslands?" Alistair queried, "Killing Arl Howe?"

"No," Clyde admitted with a frown, "but it's a start."

There was a pregnant pause, giving Alistair a moment to look around and irritably realize that the tavern keeper had never returned with his ale, and at the moment the warden felt himself to be badly in need of a drink.

That was to say that he had an idea—a decidedly bad one.

Taking a final deep breath, he turned once more to the haggard Cousland sitting at the bar. "If I help you kill Howe, will you help me defeat the Blight?"

There was a moment of silence as Clyde regarded him with suspicion. "You're going to help me kill Howe?" He questioned, sounding somewhat doubtful. Alistair supposed it was a good sign that the man hadn't immediately balked at what he had asked for in exchange.

"When the time comes, I'm going to help you kill Arl Howe." The warden responded, mustering a stern voice. It wasn't a lie, but it was a promise that he feared time might prove to be hollow.

What Howe had done to the Couslands and so many others was monstrous of course, but it paled in comparison to what would happen if the Darkspawn were allowed to march north unopposed. The Blight _had _to be stopped, no matter how many deals that required be made or broken.

Clyde immediately rose to his feet, the whirling of his cloak revealing the hilt of a longsword sheathed deep within its furrows. Turning to the warden, he searched the man's face, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. Alistair shifted under his gaze but met his eye, getting his first good look at the man he'd been seeking for nearly three months.

The nobleman looked thoroughly disheveled; greasy bangs hung nearly to his eyebrows and what had looked to once be a small, neatly-groomed beard had been allowed to grow out of control. Yet, behind his unkempt appearance, his eyes still blazed with the flames of a heart burning for retribution.

The young Cousland offered a hand without breaking his flinty stare. "I have your word?"

Alistair was careful not to hesitate and firmly took the man's hand. "You have my word."

Clyde gave a grim nod as he released the warden's hand. Dropping a few coppers on the bar, he gestured for the door. "Head outside. I'll gather my effects and meet you there."

"Right," Alistair affirmed, "I'll—uh, be out there, then." Lingering a moment more to watch the other warrior disappear into one of the tavern's rented rooms, the warden tightened his cloak and stepped back into the blustering winds of the Frostback Mountains.

Walking to a spot where an alcove provided some protection from the wind, the templar found Sten waiting there. The qunari, apparently unbothered by the cold, wore his massive cloak loosely about his shoulders and regarded Alistair with his typical tone of mild annoyance.

"Where is the human we have wasted so much time seeking?"

Alistair glanced to the imposing warrior and gave a small shrug. "He's inside, getting his things. He said he'd meet us out here."

The news didn't seem to impress the qunari who scrutinized the warden. "You let him out of your sight that he might make good his escape or fetch a weapon?"

The Grey Warden fell silent for a moment. Clyde hadn't exactly seemed thrilled by his arrival, but he thought they'd reached an understanding with one another. He wouldn't run. Alistair was almost sure of it. "I hadn't put much thought into it, actually."

Sten gave a strained utterance, the noise somewhere between an angry growl and a frustrated sigh. "That much was apparent."

"No, I mean he wants to help—well, not really I suppose, but he will."

Alistair braced himself for the lumbering warrior's rebuttal, but was met only silence, the qunari having apparently spoken his piece.

Pulling his hood up to protect his ears from the nipping frost, Alistair folded his arms and waited, quietly humming a jaunty tune to distract himself from the cold. A minute or so more passed before he heard the sound of crunching snow draw near.

Clyde Cousland appeared wearing a pack strung across his shoulder and a large, iron-rimmed shield that battered against it as he walked. Through the gap in his cloak, Alistair saw that he now wore a battered steel breastplate bearing the heraldic device of Highever over a burnished shirt of chainmail.

Adjusting how the bag sat upon his back, the haggard warrior glanced at the qunari before looking to Alistair. "It's just the three of us, then?"

"No," the warden reported, "We've got a camp farther down the mountain, but it's a bit of a walk."

"Let's get moving, then."

* * *

><p>The camp, half a dozen or so tents strewn throughout a stand of pine trees, was hardly anything to be awed about, but it boasted a blazing campfire and a cluster of boulders that ran along the camp's flank in the shape of a hook, making it a fairly defensible position. However a quick glance upward brought to Clyde's attention a considerable amount of deadfall hanging precariously from the canopy overhead, and the young warrior concluded it had either been overlooked or ignored.<p>

Alistair had pointed him to a suitable spot to pitch his tent and informed him of a small stream nearby before hurrying in the direction of the large pot that hung over the fire. Similarly, Sten, the massive qunari he'd encountered outside the tavern, had walked away without a word, leaving the human warrior alone on the edge of camp looking in.

Near the firepit where Alistair was using a ladle to eagerly fill a wooden bowl with steaming broth, a woman sat within the depths of a heavy fur blanket, her short hair the same color as the flickering wisps of fire that she watched boredly as she lightly stroked the mabari that lay along her side.

At a glance the hound appeared to be dozing, but upon closer inspection Clyde found it to be watching him with a wary eye. The warrior gave an amused snort and unslung the pack from his shoulder. As fiercely loyal and friendly as they could be, mabari were exceedingly suspicious and standoffish toward strangers, which he supposed made them even more intelligent than most people gave them credit for.

The young Cousland gave a grunt as he stretched, relieved to be rid of the weight of his pack and shield. Finding Alistair having a meal with the woman near the fire, a frown wrinkled the Clyde's face. In earnest, he wasn't sure what to think as of yet—either the Grey Warden with broth presently running down his chin was going to somehow help him deal with Howe or the youngest Cousland would find his own way. Clyde had spent three long months stewing in impotent rage in that frozen tavern, but he now took satisfaction in knowing that he was at long last making progress once again. There would come a day when Howe met his reckoning at the end of a sword, but that day needn't be tomorrow.

Pawing at the scraggly growth upon his chin, the warrior reminded himself that there was still much to be done before nightfall. Lifting his pack from the snow, he looped one of the straps over his shoulder and set about pitching his tent.


	2. Chapter 2

True to Alistair's word, Clyde found a small brook a stone's throw from the camp that ran knee-deep with frigid, glassy-clear water. Clyde kneeled on the bank of the trickling glacial stream, stripped to the waist as he used a short steel razor to cut away weeks of neglected facial hair until only a short, rounded beard remained.

Only about an hour had passed since he had first arrived at camp, but Clyde had already pitched his tent and stowed his effects inside. Now he was hurriedly taking care of a few things before the waning light restricted him to places closer to the bonfire. Night was quickly gathering at the party's alpine camp and the young Cousland savored the refreshing prickle of the chilly air on his skin. Back in the heart of the camp, Alistair was reading by the fire's orange light, though the redheaded woman had apparently retired to her tent.

Bowing his head over the stream, he used one hand to shake the trimmings from his dark-brown hair before doing the same to his beard. His haircut had been rather inexpertly done and was a bit lopsided in places, but it was still a marked improvement over the tangled mop it had been. Satisfied, if not entirely happy with his work, Clyde washed the carefully honed blade in the water before wiping it and securing it in its fitted wooden sheath. Setting it aside, the young warrior gingerly set about unwinding the long bandage that ran across his chest and over his right shoulder. The long strip of cloth, ragged from use and stained in spots, stuck fast against his skin and he cringed at the sound of it peeling away. Gathering up the dressing in a loose ball, he immersed it in the freezing brook and washed it. Wringing out the worn bandage, he laid it across his shoulder to keep it out of the grass soggy with ice and snow melt.

He clutched at his upper right arm and winced slightly, the skin still tender and faintly pink in spots. All the same though, he ran his fingertips across the roughly textured flesh, examining the gradually mending scars where he'd been scorched and blistered beneath the burning mass of a fallen beam. The very thought of his narrow escape filled his nostrils with the putrid smell of charred meat. Now, the limb served as a doubly painful reminder about the fate of his home every time he put on his armor or tossed in his sleep.

Rising to hang the damp bandage on the branch where he'd draped his shirt, Clyde was alarmed to spot a pair of eyes watching him from the shadow of a tree trunk. He retreated half a step, setting his feet and bracing himself with practice reflex. His darting eyes searching for his weapon, he spotted its sheathed form braced against the trunk of a tree a few paces beyond his reach and gave a low curse.

However, the unannounced observer made no attack. "Well," the stranger remarked, her voice tinged with amusement, "I take it you are our newest addition, then?"

"I don't believe we're acquainted," Clyde responded tersely, not slackening in the slightest.

The woman stepped from the shadows, revealing a slender, darkly-clad form. Her hair, black as the darkness, was pulled back into a simple bun, but her catlike amber eyes seemed to glow in the waning light. "I am Morrigan." She introduced herself, the small smile on her lips more predatory than genial. The patch of icy snow beneath her high black boots crunched as she shifted from foot to foot and she wore a plain, if somewhat tattered-looking black skirt with a large, pouched belt that was looped loosely around her waist. However what one might fancifully call her "robe" seemed to consist of little more than a long swath of burgundy cloth draped over her breasts amidst a web of necklaces and assorted cordage, and between her open garment and the cold, there was little left to the imagination.

"The wound upon your shoulder," the dark-clad woman prefaced, sounding more intrigued than concerned. "T'does not appear well-mended."

He didn't doubt her words. A sizeable piece of flesh on his shoulder blade had been scorched away, and the spot was numb and covered with a stiff scab that occasionally bled at the edges. All the same however, it didn't impede his ability to swing a sword and hadn't festered, so he was content to leave it alone. He returned a mirthless smile, his lips flattened against one another in a manner that could help but display his disdain for the woman's rather intrusive probing. "It'll heal in time."

Hearing this, the woman abruptly turned to left in the direction of a lone tent and watchfire on the fringes of the camp. After a long moment he suddenly felt a prick of ire and called after her. "Did you come all this way to spy on me, then?"

Clyde wasn't particular sure why he felt the need to say such a thing, nor why his tone held such a snide edge to it. It was an unwarranted jab—childish, even.

The woman paused to glare back at him for a moment, the dark line of her creased brow visible amongst the shadows. "Hardly." She spat before continuing toward her tent, the sound of crunching snow following her as she departed.

Instantly, the young lord felt deflated—robbed of the quarrel he'd perhaps been unconsciously hoping for. Watching the woman's retreating silhouette until it disappeared back into the darkness, he picked up the bandage from where he'd dropped it in the shallow snow and shoved the damp wad into his pocket.

A shiver prickling at the fine hairs on his bare torso, he retrieved his heavy woolen shirt from the low branch where he'd hung it. As he pulled it on, he realized with a grimace that the garment reeked of the musky tavern.

Grabbing his sword and hitching it to his belt, he patted down his pockets to ensure he still had his razor before making his way back to the campfire.

As he neared, Alistair rose from his spot by the fire, closing the book he'd been reading with a heavy _thud_ and setting aside the wooden dish that had been sitting in his lap. "I see you've met Morrigan," The templar observed, obviously possessing some notion of how the conversation had gone.

"Indeed," Clyde said rather gravely, his irritated frown speaking for itself.

For a few minutes no more words were spoken, and the two men simply stood watching the fire. For his part, Alistair looked tired and rather bored, but Clyde stood with his bare forearms crossed over one another, staring into the blaze with fixation, as if the dancing flames were a conjuring of his mind.

His gaze following a glowing ember as it climbed an updraft, the spell upon him seemed to break as it flickered out.

"I'll take first watch." He announced spying the moon climbing above the distant peaks.

Turning to Alistair to ensure he'd been heard, the warden nodded to him. "Alright. Just, wake up me in a few hours, I guess."

Clyde watched him disappear into his tent and then turned back to the fire.

He was glad to be alone.

It was strange, really. He'd spent so much time in that tavern—so much time utterly alone in a crowded room, that the concept of companionship seemed more alien to him than isolation. It was odd how the events of a few months could make a person forget what it was like to live a normal life.

His chest rising as he inhaled deeply, the young swordsman blew a cloud of billowing vapor out through his nose with an air of satisfaction at the act.

Clyde didn't mind the chill—in fact, he found it rather bracing. It reminded him of nights spent atop the ramparts of Castle Cousland in the late autumn when the wind from the north was cold and carried with it the smell of the ocean.

The thought of home brought a sudden pause to his reminiscing.

Even after so many weeks it seemed inconceivable that it was all gone.

He still heard Oren's laughter amidst the throngs of children that ran the streets. In crowds, he caught glimpses of familiar faces that vanished when he searched for them. At times even the echo of footsteps upon stone seemed too painfully familiar.

He tried for a long moment to imagine what the castle might look like as a heap of crumbled stone and splintered timber, but his mind revolted at the thought and he found himself instead picturing the keep in the early morning, its walls of buttressed granite and proud cobalt banner radiant in the gentle light of the dawn.

It seemed a particular cruelty, really.

If his world had been one of ceaseless pain for the last three months, Clyde perhaps could've resigned himself to some state of numbness, but it hadn't. Instead, his sorrow was interrupted with reminiscence, so that his reality might be all that more bitter when he returned to it.

A gust of icy wind howled through the camp and stirred the young warrior from his thoughts and he briskly went to his tent to fetch his cloak. Draping the heavy woolen garment around himself, he rested a hand on the sword at his waist and, returning to the fire, began to place a small circle around it.

Clyde was a man given to pacing.

He'd spent countless hours strolling atop the walls of Castle Cousland, treading the battlements in a great circuit with an air of leisure about him. There, looking out into the blanket of the night, the young man's mind found a special sort of serenity.

But those had been happier times and now the night, with its mysteries, seemed to him more sinister than it once had.

His mechanical patrol around the campfire was interrupted as his boot met something hard. Halting, he found a cast iron cooking pot tucked amidst the rocks that encircled the fire and stooped to inspect it.

Inside he found a moderate portion of the clouded amber broth he'd seen being prepared earlier, and a mass of pleasing steam rose into his face when he removed the lid. At the smell his stomach tightened as he realized he couldn't recall when he had last eaten, and he quickly found a wooden bowl nearby and filled to the brim with the golden broth.

Situating himself atop a section of a log that had been pulled close to the fire for just such a purpose, he lifted to bowl to his lips and was lost in thought once again, though it didn't escape his notice that the soup was badly in need of some salt. Listening to the wind as it howled across the distant peaks, Clyde stared vacantly into the fire as he quietly supped.

Oren's name emerged from the turbulent squall of his mind, like a stone spilled from a sack as it was shaken, and he spent a few moments sketching the lines of the young boy's face in his imagination. He was a sweet boy, with his father's crooked smile and a small, rounded face that could be most endearing when he wanted it to.

His nephew had always been enamored with the Grey Wardens. Even if he had never seen one, the ten-year-old sat with sparkling eyes when his uncle recounted tales of the noble warriors of the grey as they set off on quests to defeat bandits or slay dragons.

These were of course amended versions of the same bedtime stories that Clyde's father had tucked him and Fergus in with, but Clyde had taken some liberties with them and his nephew was none the wiser.

All the same however, as much as these tales thrilled him, Oren had never cared to know the history of the Grey Wardens. He found the few texts in the castle's library about them to be rather boring, and hadn't even wanted to hear about the Siege of Nordbotten, when an army of Wardens atop griffons had routed the Darkspawn and claimed the first decisive human victory against the Blight.

Instead, he'd wanted to hear a tales about lone Wardens—solitary warriors in shining silver who traveled from place to place by horseback, righting wrongs and searching for adventure.

In the young boy's eyes, these men and women were the embodiment of all mortal virtue—the resolute vanguard of dwarves, elves, and humans who had pledged themselves to the darkened depths of the Deep Roads. Whereas most recognized the grim and tremendous burden the order shouldered, young Oren saw it as a glorious quest.

They were knights errant, whose steadfast swords and invincible will could conquer any foe. They stood vigilant on the fringes of the world, prepared to drive back anything that emerged from the shadows. To him, the thought that evil could exist in the same world as heroes such as these was foolish.

As Clyde told these tales, perhaps—in a small way, he too had come to believe them. From where he stood from atop the walls of Castle Cousland, perhaps he too had closed his eyes and allowed himself to believe that the world was just and filled with storybook heroes.

And perhaps that was why he'd been so unprepared for Howe's treachery.

The young lord quivered and pulled his cloak tightly around himself against an imagined breeze, pretending the image of Oren's bloodless face against the stone floor hadn't flashed through his mind.

Tossing aside the empty bowl that had been sitting in his lap, Clyde rose to his feet and searched for something to occupy his mind for the long hours of the night.


End file.
